Chances: One In a Million
by Old Fiat
Summary: A chance meeting between Chad and Ryan at Heathrow airport brings back some unpleasant memories and an old friendship. Written for Naley4eva93’s Airport Challenge.


**Chances: One In a Million**

Old Fiat

Summary: A chance meeting between Chad and Ryan at Heathrow airport brings back some unpleasant memories and an old friendship. Written for Naley4eva93's Airport Challenge.

Note: The moment I saw Naley4eva93's challenge I felt myself get excited. I travel a lot so I've made many five-minute-friendships at airports. Also, I know a lot about how annoying it can be to be in an airport (no offence to any English readers, but _especially_ Heathrow) and the slightest bit of kindness can boost your low, travel-worn spirits.

Also, I wasn't sure what to call this since I didn't really choose a pairing but a friendship, so I just made up a title. n.n0

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Chad cursed as his rolling suitcase bashed against his shins for the millionth time while he ran through the confusing maze that was Heathrow airport. While he liked his job and enjoyed traveling, he hated airports. He had actually created a list of his least favorite places to land. The top three were Paris, London and Washington D.C., but that was beside the point. The point was now he was running to get his tickets so he could just go into the airport and eat something decent.

He had already had a horrible day without having to run through this second-to-worst transit point. First, he had woken up late, thus arriving late at the airport. Then, when trying to go through customs quickly, he had forgotten to inform the guards of his hip replacement and set off the alarm, thus having to call his doctor, his surgeon and his _mother_ to get proof that he was telling the truth. This then resulted in him running through Dullas to reach the gates, just barely getting there in time.

Once they landed in Heathrow, the plane drove around the runway for an hour, trying to find a place to stop. After being herded through customs like cattle, he had to call his doctor, surgeon and mother _again_ to get through without setting off the alarm.

And now he was running again to reach the desk to pick up his tickets so he could go into the rest of the airport, pick up a snack and wait for his flight to be announced in some sort of temporary peace.

Luckily, there was no repeat of his last landing at Heathrow at the desk. (The last time he was there, they had to get everyone on a very over-sold flight to Los Angeles before dealing with the other people, thus leaving everyone else in a big, too-close group in the cue area for an hour and a half.) He allowed his pace and heartbeat to slow. His right leg ached from being run on and his left wasn't in such good shape either. He walked over to the nearest bookshop, bought the first book he saw, a cheap sci-fi paperback and headed over to the MacDonald's across the slightly dirty white hallway. After dealing with a harried employee, he settled down to wait for his number to be called and examined the cover of the book he had purchased.

The illustration showed a very buxom blonde, wearing little more than a ripped up bikini-like thing, chained by the wrists to a large brown rock. A rather melted-looking green child, that was evidently supposed to be an alien, was whipping her with a cat-o-nine tails made out of flexible light-sabers. Some vague flying saucers could be seen in the upper right-hand corner, next to the title _The Bride of Mythyria_.

Deciding to return it the moment he finished eating, he set down the "novel" (if you could call it that) and watched the other tired airport people trapped in Heathrow, making up ludicrous back-stories for them as they passed. A group of nuns, he decided, were actually undercover spies working for the Mi6, a tall black woman was actually a transsexual man, and a young Australian man in a white polo, khaki trousers and navy blue suit coat was an basketball player in college who lost all hopes of turning pro at twenty-two because a stupid accident that resulted in nerve damage, hip replacement and…

Oops. That was someone else.

He continued the game with himself, trying to squash the unpleasant memories that had bubbled up inside his head, but was interrupted by his number being shouted through the loud speaker. As he was returning to his table, he walked into a little girl. The small blonde child gave a tiny scream and her chocolate ice cream flew out of her hand, landing on Chad's crisp white button-up shirt and black tie. Bits of cream and cone stuck to his black, slightly wrinkled suit and short, curly hair.

He sat there for a moment, surrounded by ice cream, soda, French fries and his surprisingly undestroyed burger, shut his eyes and tilted his head back. His right leg throbbed horribly from running and, now, being fallen on. He tried to keep breathing—in and out, in and out, in and out—while checking to see if his leg had dislocated, his eyes still unopened. The little girl's mother came over and began to reprimand her daughter in a foreign language. French, Chad realized after a moment's listening, a language he was quite fluent in.

She turned towards him, her curly brown hair falling over her dark eyes, and said with a thick accent, "I am very sorry, sir—"

He held up one hand and slowly opened his eyes. Breathing heavily, he started to get up. "_It's fine, ma'am,_" he said, the flowery language flowing from his lips. "_Just tell your daughter to be a bit more careful with her ice cream._" The woman smiled.

"Merci, mousier," she led the little girl back over to their booth.

Chad, now fully erect, looked down at the still-wrapped burger. There was no way he could bend down to pick it up. Feeling incredibly stupid, he called back over the French woman and asked her to retrieve it for him. She smiled, handed him the package and left. He limped back over to his table, slumping in his sticky, dirty suit. He would have to pull out his stupid cane. He hated that thing, but his doctor had told him to keep it around in case of something like this and he supposed he was right.

He unzipped the suitcase and pulled out the stupid stick. He was rather happy he had refused to use the metal one offered by the hospital, choosing instead to go out to fifty antique stores with Troy and buying a wooden one. It was just a plain piece of maple with a carved knob on top and a rubber thing at the bottom, but if he had to look like a feeble old man, he didn't want to look like all the other ones.

Leaning on the smooth hunk of wood, he plodded over to the bookstore and returned _The Bride of Mythyria_ in favor of a new copy of one of his favorite books, _Dr. Doolittle_. Silly? Yes, but he wanted something comforting and familiar on such a horrendous day. Exhausted and in pain, he sat down in the long strip of chairs in the center of the hall to hang around until his gate was announced.

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Ryan strode through the airport, his briefcase swinging bouncily in his hand. The night before had been the last performance of the West-End production of _The Music Man_, choreography thanks to him. Sometimes, he wished he had followed Sharpay and gone for a life in front of the cameras instead of behind it. The whole purpose of his job was to make people like _her_ look good and coordinated. Depressing? Yes, but he did enjoy it most of the time.

After a quick stop by a nameless coffee shop (he was going to go to the McDonalds, but there was some large explosion of food and trash in the middle of the restaurant. Ew.), he began to make his way through the rows of seats that made a small forest in the center of the room. After a few minutes of trying to step around people, chairs and baggage, he finally saw an empty chair beside a man and his roll-a-long suitcase. He flopped down in it, not because he was really exhausted, but because anyone who saw him wouldn't want to take his chair because they _thought_ he was exhausted. He settled back in the cushy metal seat and stared openly at the man beside him.

The man in question looked in between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. He was wearing a black suit, black tie and white shirt, all of which were rather rumpled and covered in chocolate and French fries. He was reading a turquoise book with _Dr. Doolittle_ printed in black type on the cover. A wooden cane was propped up against his chair and his suitcase. His shoes were shiny and black and very dressy for wandering about an airport. They were also covered in chocolate.

The man himself was chocolate colored. And while that may sound odd, it was true. He had skin the color of milk chocolate and his eyes were the same color as a Hershey's kiss. His hair was also brown and probably about the same length as Ryan's own. It was hard to tell the length through the tight curls. His appearance, especially his pointy nose, poofy hair and large, soft lips, were very familiar but he couldn't pinpoint where he'd seen them before.

Noticing Ryan's stares, the man turned towards him and closed his book.

"Do you want help?" he asked in a very clear American accent, something Ryan hadn't heard for a while. He knew that voice too, but…

"Huh? Uh… no. No thanks…" he said, laughing slightly.

The man raised one eyebrow and reopened his book.

Now Ryan was annoyed. Not at the man, but because he seemed so… He was sure he'd seen him before. He ran through the places he could've met people he would remember, nothing. So aggravating. He began to stare at him again.

There was a snap as the man closed his book suddenly. Ryan jumped.

"Listen, why are you staring at me?" asked the man; he looked rather angry. Ryan glanced away from his face a moment at the floor and his eyes fell upon the cane and the man's shiny black dress shoes.

"Oh… Erm…" he tried to explain as best he could and nervously pushed his pale blonde hair out of his eyes. "You just remind me of someone and I was trying to remember who it was. Sorry."

The man looked at him a while, considering, and Ryan looked back at him.

"My name is Chad, if that helps," he finally said, breaking eye contact and opening his book again.

Ryan's brain clicked.

"Chad Danforth?" he said, a smile bloomed across his face. The man looked back over at him. He seemed very surprised.

"Yeah…" he said, then cocked his hand slightly and considered Ryan. A huge grin broke over his face.

"Evans, right?" he asked and Ryan nodded. "Awesome!"

They broke into excited conversation. Chad was working as a translator apparently, which surprised Ryan slightly—he had always pictured the boy going into the NBA or something like that—but he smiled and nodded, pretending he had always suspected as much. A few more minutes revealed Chad was going to Italy to interpret for an English actress on some television show, which was taking place that evening.

"So what happened to the suit?" asked Ryan. "Were you going to go the show directly?"

Chad nodded. "Can't now though." He laughed a little and vaguely picked at the stubborn chocolate stain. "So where are you going?" he asked, still focusing on his recently destroyed shirt.

"Los Angeles," he shrugged and joined his friend in the study of the shirt.

"Do you want to borrow my shirt?" asked Ryan after several minutes of silence, even though there were about five million other questions he wanted to ask his friend.

Chad looked up at him. "What?"

"My shirt," said Ryan pointing at his chest where the button up sat. "Do you want to borrow it?"

"Why?"

"Because, you're going on television later and even if they don't film you do you want to be walking around in chocolate covered garment?"

Chad shrugged. "No, but…" he looked dubiously at the shirt. "Bright green and silver pinstripes? Isn't that a little fruity? Or are you insinuating something?"

Ryan laughed. "Of course not! I just want you to look good. Come on!" He grabbed his suitcase and pulled Chad on to his feet.

The dark-haired man picked up his bag and his cane. Ryan noticed he put a lot of weight on his left leg. "What will you wear?" he asked the blonde as he was marched into the men's room.

"Your shirt. I'm going straight home after I get back," he slipped off his jacket, set it on the sink and began to unbutton his shirt. He laughed a little under his breath. "This is like that one time."

"What one time?" asked Chad, taking off his own coat. He didn't feel like arguing with an Evans at that moment,

"After the baseball game. When you first started working at Lava Springs and Troy was acting like a jerk, remember?"

Chad nodded and set his tie beside his coat. "Oh yeah. But I offered, remember? Because you hated being dirty, don't you still?"

"Yeah," Ryan admitted, and handed Chad the shirt, the metallic stripes glinted in the florescent light. "But you're going on TV, you ought to look at least decent."

They swapped shirts. The green cotton fit a little too snug across his chest, but at that moment Chad didn't care really. He put back on his tie with the help of the mirrors and smiled.

"Thanks," he said, picking up his cane once more.

Ryan felt the questions burning inside him and they burst out of him.

"Why are you using that cane?" he asked, blurting out the words in a rush. Chad paused, halfway through the knot. Ryan wished he could shut up but the queries kept coming. "Why are you a translator? Why aren't you playing basketball? Why are you limping?"

His friend stood, frozen, in front of the long row of mirrors. Then, he put on his jacket, grabbed the handle of his suitcase and walked out of the bathroom. Ryan rushed after him, wondering where his brain went. Chad sat back down in his chair and pulled _Doctor Doolittle_ out of his bag, settling down to read.

Ryan sat down next to him.

"Why did you walk off?" he asked, rearranging his briefcase and coat around him.

Chad gave him a withering look, which surprised Ryan. He was unaware that Chad could even do a withering look.

"Listen," he said, putting his hand on the slightly taller man's shoulder. "It's just a question, it can't hurt you. If you don't want to answer, you don't have to. But don't act like I read your diary and discovered you use a cane. I have eyes."

There would've been a space of silence, if not for the hustle and bustle of the other travelers and the constant warnings to hold on to your baggage.

"I was playing basketball," Chad started, closing the book and setting it on his lap. Said by anyone else, these words would've been whispered, but Chad said it calmly. His voice even, though a little sarcastic. "I got a full-run scholarship at University of Albuquerque playing basketball and majoring in languages." Ryan didn't move, concentrating on listening to Chad and not to the millions of distractions in the airport.

"But I was in a car accident," he said, absent-mindedly flipping through the book. "It caused mild nerve damage and my hip was totally crushed, so I had to get a titanium one put in and go through hours of therapy." Ryan opened his mouth to ask a question but Chad answered it before he could speak. "I actually can't play basketball because (1) I know have a slight limp, and (2) you can't bend your leg move than ninety-degrees from your body once you have hip replacement or it will dislocate."

Ryan said nothing for a while, absorbing the information just presented to him. Finally he patted Chad on the back and apologized for bringing back obviously painful memories and thanked him for explaining.

"You can ask me a tactless question you want," he said with a happy smile.

Chad grinned and for a second Ryan could sort of see the teenage boy in Chad that lived and breathed only for his sport—the boy who took up the challenge of learning to dance in mere weeks. But it faded once he began to speak.

"What were you doing in London?"

Ryan explained that he had been choreographing a production of _The Music Man_, which had actually been quite successful. Chad raised his eyebrows when Ryan told him this.

"What?" he asked, looking at the other young man who had a little smirk on his lips.

"Well, I always thought you'd be an actor or a dancer. Though I guess it kind of makes sense."

"More sense than you being a translator," said Ryan, his voice touched with laughter. But when wasn't it?

"Hey, I've been bilingual since, like, birth," Chad cracked up about halfway through that sentence so Ryan couldn't understand most of it. He chuckled along though, getting the gist of the statement.

On one of the boards that showed the flights, their departures and the gates they were leaving from, the gate for Chad's flight was announced.

A metallic, female voice announced simultaneously, "_Flight-615 to Rome is leaving at gate A13 in one hour_."

Chad swore. "I should get going if I have to walk with this." He gestured towards the cane. "It's been great talking to you though, Evans. Where should I send the shirt?"

Ryan waved his hand dismissively. "No need. You keep it. It looks good on you."

"Thanks," Chad grinned again, gathered up his things and began to walk away from Ryan, leaning heavily on his cane.

Ryan watched him walk away in silence. It'd be such a shame for them never to speak again after such a good chat. Even though he hadn't realized it, he missed Chad.

Quickly pulling a notebook and pen out of his briefcase, Ryan scribbled something on the page and set off after Chad.

"Wait!" he called, running through the crowds of people that filled the hallways, each person speaking a different language. He saw Chad through the group. The young man in the borrowed shirt stopped walking and turned around. Ryan pushed his way through the people and got to him, panting slightly.

"Here," he said, tearing the sheet of paper out of the notebook, folding it in half and placing it in Chad's pocket. "Call me when you get the time."

Chad looked shocked for a few moments but then he smiled.

"See you, Evans," he said, giving him a short wave and walking off. Ryan leaned against the wall in between one of the shops and watched him go, barely hearing the announcer when, thirty minutes later, his own flight and gate was announced.

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Chad stepped out of the cab and on to the sidewalk. He took a deep breath. Rome… It smelled like any other city and, looking around at the slightly crooked blocks, it looked like any other city, but that day it seemed magical. He pulled his bag out of the trunk and stood on the worn concrete. He could feel the smooth, silky fibers of the nice clean shirt against his skin and he put a hand in his pocket, just to check if the paper was still there. He pulled out the page and looked at it.

In round, loopy writing was written: _Call me!!_ And beneath was that a string of numbers. He smiled at the page and looked back up at Rome.

Magical… His day had gone from sickeningly awful to magical. Strange how quickly things could change. Just one conversation and he was happier than he'd been in years. What were the chances? One in a million.

_Magical,_ he toyed with word in his mind and set off walking, for once enjoying the feeling of the cane in his hand. It made him feel magical.

Maybe that meeting wasn't chance. Maybe it was fate.

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**Yay! Chad feels happy again and he can call Ryan later. Whoop! **

**Please review! I always love them. C:**

**-Old Fiat s. Italy**


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